The Dying Detective
by effywho
Summary: Sherlock is dying, and John would go to any lengths to help him. But as the plot thickens it's not just Sherlock's health on a downward spiral; losing him once was bad enough. Can John deal with the strain of the case, or has he finally reached breaking point? –My try at a BBC Sherlock version of the classic story.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: The Sherlock Holmes stories are now in the public domain, but full credit to ACD for the plot, borrowed dialogue (Sherlock especially didn't require much tweaking in this case, he hasn't changed much since the 1800s apparently), and the amazing characters I like to mess around with.  
And of course BBC Sherlock etc not mine, just borrowing! **_

_**I decided to try and retell this story as a personal challenge, but now I'm kind of obsessed with finishing it, so there will be more chapters on the way.**_

**Chapter One **

It was on a foggy November morning, one of those rare one's where John Watson was not on a morning shift and was instead sitting listlessly on the sofa, flicking through TV channels far faster than was necessary, just for something to do. Those who didn't know him assumed that this was most likely his natural state: an ordinary man doing painfully ordinary things. But those closer to him – and there was not many who were – knew that this couldn't be further from the truth. In fact, he was currently having a hard time resisting taking the gun that lay innocently in his drawer and taking it on a tour of London. Just because.

It was not the sort of day he enjoyed. It was true to say that Sherlock Holmes was not the only one who rebelled at stagnation. John despised the mundane periods of nothing almost equally. Indeed, he was usually better at keeping it under wraps, but here in his empty house with no one to make an example to, he was once again coming to understand how Sherlock had so often ended up defacing the flat in boredom.

He wished that Mary was not out teaching unwilling primary school children the times tables. It had been 2 years since they married, only a few short months after he and Sherlock had helped to solve a mystery that had hung over her life for 10 years. It had been one of the first cases since Sherlock's...return. The engagement came as a complete surprise to most, but John knew immediately that Mary Morstan was not just another girlfriend; even Sherlock recognised it, as much as he hated to admit it. He loved her, and inexplicably as it seemed, she loved him too. It was that simple. And anyway, John wasn't getting any younger, there had been no point waiting. He missed her now. Her soft brown eyes and that way she had of making John feel completely at ease and content, just by being there. Since he moved in with Mary he had stopped sleeping with a gun under his pillow. He no longer felt the need to so rigorously check the perimeters of his home at night; a routine from Afghanistan which had become a compulsive habit since his return. He felt calmer, just in general. Mary had helped him more than she knew. He missed her today.

With his wife unavailable, John's mind searched for alternatives. He thought about heading out to visit an old friend. But realised that when it came down to it, there was only one: Sherlock Holmes. It had been a few weeks since he had seen his old flatmate. These days John always held a certain guilt in the back of his mind about Sherlock. What with his marriage, and his new job with long hours, he had been living a very home-centred life. It was a life he loved, and the A&E job provided him with the adrenaline kicks he needed, but there was always something missing. He strongly suspected that the something was a certain lanky consulting detective called Sherlock.

Every now and then Sherlock would turn up on his doorstep, at hours on varying degrees of decency, with a case he wanted John's assistance with. And sometimes John would arrive at Baker Street and they would continue like John never stopped living there. But there was no denying that their relationship had changed since John got married. Sherlock had been disappointed to hear of the proposal, saying that love was emotional and below reason and logic and all he held dear; though this didn't stop him accepting his place as best man at the wedding. Secretly John thought he just didn't want him to leave. They had become so accustomed to each other's presence that being separated was oddly disconcerting, like losing a leg and realising for the first time that you needed that to walk with. As time went by, they adapted to the change, but they drifted. John was always busy, Sherlock was always on a case, or he didn't leave the flat for days on end. Sometimes they didn't talk for weeks, and then John would get a text saying they were out of milk. These eventually became a kind of coded message, meaning it was time to journey back to his old lodgings and spend time with his old, formerly dead friend. But he always brought offerings of milk anyway.

John turned off the TV and sat up. He could go and see Sherlock now, couldn't he?

He stood to put this plan into motion, when the doorbell sounded. He looked towards the noise with eyebrows raised. No one called at this time of day, except one person. John's face lit up. Could it be that Sherlock had beaten him to it? He headed to the front door and opened it.

As he was expecting Sherlock, it was with some surprise that he looked out and saw none other than Mrs Hudson standing there, wearing a yellow raincoat and a harrowing expression.

He greeted his old landlady and invited her in, his surprise quickly overtaken by worry at the look on her face and her unusually quiet voice.

He lead her into the living room where she sat on the tentatively on the edge of the sofa.

"Tea?" he asked her.

Mrs Hudson shook her head, "No thank you, dear. There isn't time, I'm afraid." She takes out a handkerchief and blows her nose.

John sits down abruptly.

No time for tea? Definitely not good.

"I think he's dying, John," Mrs Hudson says, and she is almost tearful. This is a very bad sign. John hasn't seen Mrs Hudson so obviously distressed since...well, since the funeral.

"He's been on one of his funny turns, for three days." She continues, "I don't like to disturb you, John, but –" she stifles a sob, "He's not _well. _It's a mother's instinct, dear. Apart from the obvious, he's not at all himself. He wouldn't let me call you, or any doctor, never mind persuading him to go to the hospital. An ambulance would be more fitting at this point. This morning I checked in on him, oh you should have seen him! Bones sticking out of his face and his eyes were so bright; I couldn't stand any more of his nonsense. 'Whether you like it or not,' I told him, 'I'm calling an ambulance!' Well of course, he didn't like that. But he must have known I wasn't bluffing, because he said not to call an ambulance, 'if you're going to insist I see a doctor, at least let it be John.' He said. We should go to Baker Street now, if you will, doctor. He's not at all well."

John wasted no time getting his coat and accompanying Mrs Hudson to the main road where he flagged down a cab. As they drove he questioned her for details, unable to keep his mind from rushing ahead and panicking in a way which was unlike his usual crisis-ready calm.

"I really can't tell you much about it, I'm afraid," Mrs Hudson had composed herself and seemed considerably more relaxed with John on his way to help the situation.

"He's been working on one of his cases, down at Rotherhithe, near the river. He says he picked this illness up there. Took to his bed on Wednesday, and I don't think food or water has passed his lips since."

"Good God. Three days? Mrs Hudson, why didn't you call me earlier?"

"He wouldn't have it, John! You know how he can get, I didn't dare disobey him. He's a grown man after all. But it's gotten beyond the pale, if he doesn't accept help now he'll be not long for this world."

It obviously pained her to say it, but he was glad of her honesty. It sharpened his focus; helped him detach himself from the emotional upheaval of the news and instead concentrate on what he had to do.

The more John heard of this mysterious illness the more it was clear that Sherlock required urgent medical attention. He tried to think rationally: Sherlock was on a case, therefore his mind was stimulated, making it unlikely that this was a predominantly a depression related problem. John was well aware from his years living with the man that Sherlock was prone to periods of shutting himself away and wallowing in blackness. He had learnt from experience how best to support him through these episodes and to slowly coax him out of his isolation. Despite his current assurances that this was a physical illness, John could not shake the knowledge that the frequency of "danger nights" Mycroft had contacted him about had risen considerably over the last year. It was testament to Mary's understanding of John and Sherlock that she did not object to her husband leaving every few months, to spend long nights helping his friend out of a state of meltdown, whether said friend wanted to be helped or not. However, Sherlock had taken to his bed _during _a case. This was unheard of. John had known Sherlock refuse sleep and run of pure adrenaline for 7 days on end rather than give up the chase. Conclusion: Mrs Hudson was not exaggerating. It would be a serious condition indeed to put Sherlock Holmes off a scent.

John felt calmed slightly to think that this was almost definitely a physical illness and not a relapse into cocaine, before he remembered that actually the alternative was no better.

Sherlock had not eaten or drank. It was normal enough for him not to eat on a case, especially if it was not going well, but not drinking was a new one. John hoped to God that Sherlock hadn't ruled liquid as detrimental to his thought process now too. As if his existing self-inflicted case regulations weren't unhealthy enough. Sherlock not eating suggested that he was using his brain. Trying to solve the case from his death bed? John wouldn't put it past him. Then again, this illness could be the culprit. Quite possibly Sherlock just couldn't keep anything down.

His musings where brought to a halt as they arrived at 221B.

The 17 steps to his old rooms seemed infinitely steeper that day. Mrs Hudson hovered in the kitchen, motioning that John should go in alone. With growing trepidation, John knocked 3 times on Sherlock's bedroom door. When there was no response, he opened it and went inside.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. The air was stale, as if the window hadn't been opened in years, and the unmistakable stench of stale sweat hung most unwelcomingly. But it was not the smell that caused John Watson's breath to catch and his body to refuse to move any further. It was Sherlock.

His face was gaunt and staring, his body seemed collapsed as he lay with his wasted figure folded almost unnaturally in John's direction. His arms were stretched out towards him, reaching, and his shuddering fingers were all that broke the still. There was a long pause in which John could only look on in dismay at the scene. There was something about this that was so horribly unnerving that John, who prided himself on his professionalism, was momentarily lost in thought.

He shook himself internally, took a deep breath and shut the bedroom door. Sherlock's eyes had the brightness of fever and his pale face was flushed pink on either cheek. Dark crusts clung to his lips. His fingers continued to twitch incessantly. He lay limply as John looked at him, but a gleam of recognition flitted past his glassy stare.

"John, John." Sherlock's voice was croaking and erratic. It didn't suit him. "We seem to have fallen on bad times."

John acknowledged Sherlock's feeble attempt at his usual disinterested default. Without thinking, he began to move closer.

"Stand back! Stand right back!" Sherlock cried suddenly, using a sharp cry which John could only associate with a moment of crisis. "If you come any closer I'll have Mrs Hudson throw you out."

It was such an odd statement that John almost laughed, "Sherlock, don't be so ridiculous. Why do you say that?"

"Stay back, John" Sherlock warned.

"But why?"

"Because it is my desire, is that not enough?"

Mrs Hudson was right, John thought: Sherlock was being especially difficult. He looked almost pitiful as he tried to battle the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him.

Sherlock breathed in quick, scratchy gulps, trying to somehow find energy in it. It was painful to listen to.

"I want to help."

"You can help me by doing what you're told." Sherlock snapped the words, a desperate look covering his features.

"Alright, alright, fine." John held up my hands to show he would come no closer or the time being. Clearly Sherlock was distressed, possibly verging on delusional. He was certainly dehydrated. It seemed that the only thing to do was to pacify him until he relaxed into a state he would allow John's help.

Sherlock visibly loosened the sternness of his manner as he saw that John meant what he said.

"Are you not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.

John sighed, "I can't be angry with you in this state. I don't think it would be helpful, for one thing."

"It's for your own good," Sherlock croaked.

"For _my own_ good?" John was incredulous.

"I know what the matter with me is. It's a disease from Sumatra – the Dutch know more about it that we do. Only two things are certain. It's fatal, and it's horribly contagious." He spoke with feverish energy, long hands twitching and jerking in attempt to keep John at bay.

"Contagious by touch, John – that's it, by touch. Keep away and you'll be fine."

"Jesus, Sherlock." John shook his head and laughed, "Do you really think that would stop me looking after you? It wouldn't matter to me if you were a stranger. Do you think for one second it would prevent me from treating you, my best friend?"

Again John attempted to advance, but was repulsed by a look of furious anger on Sherlock's face.

"I will talk if you _stand back! _If you can't stay away I must ask you to _leave_."

John had a deep admiration for Sherlock and his extraordinary talents, and often found that it was best to respect his wishes and requests, even if he did not fully understand them. But by now his professional instincts were roused in a way that made him certain that, this time, Sherlock should have no choice but listen to him. Let Sherlock be his master elsewhere, in the sick room, at least, John was his.

"Sherlock," he said, "You are not yourself. It's been three days and by now there's no telling what damage has been caused. I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them. Failing that, I will call an ambulance. And I'll be honest with you Sherlock, by the look of you I'm going to be calling an ambulance anyway. Do yourself a favour and deal with it."

Sherlock looked at his only friend with malicious eyes.

"If I am to have a doctor," he said, with venom dripping from his words, "let me at least have one in which I have some confidence."

John retracted slightly at the comment.

"Then...you've none in me." He couldn't entirely conceal the impact those few careless words had on him, but he bit it back, reminding himself of Sherlock's condition. After all, John knew better than most the way people change with illness and pain.

"In your friendship, certainly." Sherlock said hoarsely, "But I have to look at the facts, John. You're only a GP, with limited experience and mediocre qualifications. I'm sorry you've driven me to have to say such things, but it seems I have no choice but to spell it out to you."

There was now no mistaking the bitter hurt on John's face. He looked away, calming himself with a few deep breaths.

"That – look, just –" He pinched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that his frustration was becoming unbearable, "You need help."

He looked back up at Sherlock, steadying his bubbling emotion and locking down on it fiercely.

"If you have no confidence in me, fine. Let me call someone for you; Dr Meek, or Fisher, any of the best in London. But I'm not shifting on this, I don't care what you say to me, you have no choice but to see a doctor. If you _think _that I can just stand here and watch you _die_..." he could feel himself falling fast back into the realms of sentiment. His vision blurred. A stark and terrible sight appeared in his mind: Sherlock's body sprawled across the pavement outside Bart's, his pale face streaked with blood. So real yet it had a photo-like quality. John closed his eyes and willed the image away, something he had been attempting to achieve for years with no avail. In the end, the flashbacks always won. He looked at Sherlock, weak and small on his bed, and he knew he had to keep his cool. For Sherlock, for that bastard who, as he kept telling himself, was not himself today. So he took a second to stand taller and bring himself in check before continuing, "If you think I'll let that happen, without helping you myself, or bringing someone else to help you, you've badly mistaken me."

The sick man made a noise that was half between a sob and a groan.

"You mean well, John. Shall I show you your ignorance then? Tell me now, what do you know of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formoso corruption?" Sherlock's feverish eyes gleamed up at him sporadically from where he lay, twisted in blankets, with a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"I've never heard of either." John folded his arms, like it was some kind of barrier against Sherlock.

"There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological possibilities, in the East..." He paused to collect his faltering strength, closing his eyes wearily. "I've learnt a good deal during recant researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was during my research that I contracted this disease. You can do nothing."

"Maybe I can't." John admitted steadily, "But I happen to know that Dr Ainstree who, if I remember rightly, is one of the highest authorities on tropical diseases in Europe, is in London at the moment." He smiled a little, pleased that he had remembered this fact from a recent conversation over lunch at the A&E. "I'm going to contact him now." John said, and he turned resolutely towards the door.

There was a moment of cold surprise, and John felt his heart stop for a second as, with a tiger-spring, Sherlock's emaciated pyjama-clad frame intercepted his path in a single bound.

"What the –" John gaped at Sherlock.

There was a sharp snap of a key twisting in a lock. In the next second the dying man staggered back to bed, exhausted and panting from his exertion.

"Sherlock, what –"

"You won't get this key from me by force." Sherlock laughed manically, the noise catching as he gasped with little shallow breaths. His eyes rolled and then focused on the perplexed doctor by the door, "I've got you, my friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I say otherwise. But I'll humour you, John," he struggled for breath as he was seized with a second of barking laughter, "You have only my own good at heart. I know that well, of course. You will have your way, but let me get my strength back first. No, no, not now. Patience, John. It's 4 o'clock. At 6 you can go."

"This is insanity!" John spluttered.

"Only 2 hours, John," Sherlock's broken voice crooned, "I promise you, I'll let you go then. Are you happy to wait?"

John struggled to reign in the sudden anger the question evoked.

"It doesn't actually look like I have a choice, Sherlock. Do I have a choice in this?"

"None in the world, John." Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled restfully, "Thank you. You will please keep your distance."

John stared disbelievingly at the sleepy mound of limbs and curly hair that Sherlock had become.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, "Oh and there is one more condition. You will seek help, not from the man you mention, but from the one I choose."

John admitted defeat and slouched into the comfortable office chair that was pushed out from the desk and was now facing the single-glazed window.

"Yes, looks like I will, doesn't it."

"The first sensible thing you've said all day, John. You'll find some books over there. I admit I'm tired. I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into a non-conductor. At 6, John, we continue our conversation."

And with that he rolled over and spoke no more.

**Authors notes:**

_**Thank you for reading! I hope I haven't messed this up; it was more difficult than I thought it would be to write.**_

_**There will be 5 chapters in total.**_

_**Reviews are appreciated, so thank you to those who did so on my previous fic, I want to hug you all **_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or BBC Sherlock etc. Full credit to ACD for the source material this is based on.**_

**Chapter two**

John was not pulsating with anger as he thought he ought to be. Perhaps he had finally snapped, finally lost the ability to differentiate between nightmares and flashbacks and the real world which was considerably worse than all of those things. He felt sick at the circumstances he had created. He should have been able to diffuse the situation. It's not like Sherlock was the first difficult patient he'd had to deal with. So why was it so hard to fix this?

Maybe, he thought, he should tackle the resting consulting detective down and demand the key. But that would constitute as kicking someone who was already down, something John never did and wasn't about to start now. A worse thought: what if the sudden attack was all too much for Sherlock's already strained body and the shock killed him? John shuddered lightly; Sherlock's blood on the floor was one thing, it being on his hands was entirely another. So that ruled out plan Attack.

This was going to be a long 2 hours.

John stood up, trying to be quiet about it. For some minutes he just looked upon the silent figure in the bed. Sherlock's face was almost completely covered by blankets and he appeared to be sleeping. His breath scratched and broke at irregular intervals. Every now and then he would cough or moan into the mattress, shifting to free his face from the tangle of duvet he was cocooned in.

Sherlock's bedroom was something of an anomaly in the otherwise consistent chaos of 221B Baker Street, in that it was almost entirely clutter free. It had been something which had been a constant thorn in John's side, as it was he who had regularly been left to deal with the disarray Sherlock caused elsewhere. Clearly Sherlock's aversion to order did not extend to his personal living space.

John glanced over the books Sherlock had mentioned; they were primarily thick, aged volumes of a scientific nature. Books on criminology, forensics and toxicology were shelved together in a perfectly straight and probably date-ordered line. He pulled a particularly large book, which was titled 'Anopheline Species Complexes in South and South East Asia'. It was considerably younger looking than its companions; John suspected this had been bought specifically for the case Sherlock was working on. What had Sherlock said? It had a medico-criminal nature or something? He thought about that, and then almost rolled his eyes at his own density; because of course it had a medico-criminal nature. That was why Sherlock was currently in bed with an apparently fatal disease!

He flicked through the big, dull book for a few seconds, before finding the index and looking for anything that vaguely resembled the words 'Tapanuli' or 'Formoso Corruption'. It was infuriating really. Here was a case that linked closely with medicine and diseases, things which were definitely within John's area of expertise, and yet he knew nothing of these things. As usual, he was not nearly as clued-up on the case matter as Sherlock was. By and large this didn't bother him, it was to be expected. But he was John doctor, and to be helpless while his friend tossed and turned with sickness felt utterly unbearable. It was a feeling altogether too similar to another one, a memory, and that was enough to make his breathing constrict painfully and suddenly.  
It was 5 years since his friend had jumped off that roof, but John still felt an overwhelming powerless terror to think of Sherlock rushing down from that hospital roof; falling almost gracefully, like a swooping black bird with a death-wish. John hated that he still suffered with the memory. Sherlock would think it ridiculous. He couldn't even admit to Mary the way it haunted him. He was a soldier: he knew war and death. He had lived it; lived while his friends and comrades died and fell around him. It had changed him, undoubtedly. His tormented mind had held onto the hard times like, somehow, without them weighing him down and filling his consciousness he would fade into nothing and disappear. But he had survived, like he always did. He pretended to be over his past and the PTSD, and he did it well; sometimes he could even fool himself. He stared down unseeing at the words in the book; meaningless, they were all meaningless. What kind of doctor was he? His knuckles went white as he gripped onto the pages with too much force. Focusing hard in the page, he scanned its content rapidly. There was no mention of the words he wanted. It was useless. A voice in the back of his head corrected him, _you are useless. _It sounded like Sherlock.

John slammed the book shut. It was obvious that Sherlock hadn't spent much time reading it anyway. _Useless, _the Sherlock-like mocker whispered. John put the book down on the window sill with rather more force than was necessary, electing instead to clench his fists and glare into nothingness. He dared it to speak up now. Not even John Watson gets to insult John Watson, he thought bitterly.

Unable to settle down, he started to walk slowly around the room. It hadn't changed much. The periodic table was gone – Sherlock claimed to know it off by heart anyway – to be replaced by a series of faintly disturbing mug-shots of celebrated criminals. Their faces leered at John through the paper, and he found himself bristling yet again as he squared his shoulders against them. Back to military, that was what always happened: when he threatened, or anxious, or grieving. He always went back to the boundaries and security of the uniform, figuratively at least.

Finally, he came to the desk; a new addition of John's absence. Its smooth oak surface was littered with cigarettes, penknives, cartridges, and other debris. A sleek black laptop was shining despite the darkness of the room; a pile of letters lay precariously on its shell. Various scraps of paper were scattered among the mess, containing little diagrams and seemingly random words and phrases. All of them were scrunched up or otherwise damaged. The desk itself wasn't quite right. It took a few seconds before John could put his finger on it: it was cluttered. In fact, it looked as though someone had been rummaging through the drawers and throwing things onto its surface. Looking for something? Glancing at Sherlock now, John found it hard to imagine him flinging these things about so roughly; Sherlock wasn't always the most careful of people, but in John's experience, if it was in his room it held some value to him. So someone else had been here? No, people didn't break in here, and anyway thieves would surely have taken the laptop. But then again, Sherlock's enemies weren't usually the obvious ones. John tried to rid the thought of an intruder from his mind: Sherlock had been in here for three days and Mrs Hudson was probably around for most of that. It must have been Sherlock.  
Looking back at the collection of items on the desk, there was one thing which stood apart from the rest. It was small, about the size of a match box. It appeared to be built of ivory, or something similar, and its exterior was a bone white. Curious, John reached for it. It was a neat little thing, he gently lifted it up to examine more closely when –

For the second time that day John experienced the cold shock of surprise.

Sherlock Holmes had given a dreadful, almost blood-curdling cry, so piercing John felt sure that it could have been heard down the street.

John turned in alarm to see Sherlock lunging towards him and panting wildly. His eyes were bright and frantic as he struggled, defeated by panic as he found his limbs to be constrained and tangled in the duvet that enveloped his body. His expression was one convulsed with undiluted horror, an empty scream hanging in his silence.

John felt his skin go cold as he stood, motionless, like a rabbit in the headlights.

"Put it down! Down, immediately, John – right now, dammitt!

John snapped into action and placed the little white box back among the rubble of Sherlock's desk, quickly as he was able. Sherlock fell back onto his pillows with a deep, rumbling sigh of relief.

"I hate to have my things touched, John. You know I hate it. A doctor," he snorted,_ "_you – you're enough to drive a patient to insanity. Sit down and for God's sake don't touch anything else!"

The incident left John shaken. Nothing made sense. His head spun. What was with today? _Nothing is right. _He sat shakily back in the computer chair. He thought of what had just happened: the violent and causeless anger from Sherlock, followed by more brutal speech to John's detriment. In the earlier days of their association such talk would probably have been seen as normal for Sherlock; but it had been nearly 8 years now since they met, and Sherlock had not been so callous with John in a long, long time. Of course, he was still Sherlock, and his brain to mouth filter was never quite in working order, but not with John, not like this. Maybe it was just the nature of the case, but the things he was verbally assaulting John with could have been specifically chosen to cause him as much pain as possible. Sherlock new which buttons to push, and today he was pressing them all. They could have been said with the exact cause of getting John's defences up.  
Sherlock did seem to be delirious though. John recognised the signs, the disorganisation of the man's mind was written on his every move and in every word he said. John rubbed his temple wearily. Maybe he was ill, and this was all one terrible fever-dream.

He did not move again until 6 o' clock.

Evidently Sherlock was watching the clock as anxiously as John, as it was barely on the hour when he began to talk again.

"Now John," he said, "Do you have any change on you?"

John checked his pockets, "Um, yeah, a bit."

"Any silver?"

"Some, yeah"

"How many tens?" Sherlock questioned him.

"Er...5, but –"

"Too few! Too few. How unfortunate. Put them in your pocket as they are. All the rest can go in the other pocket. Thank you. You're balanced far better now."

John's mind was devouring itself with worry. He was getting worse. Sherlock was fading away. What had he been thinking letting this time go by unquestioned? His heart sped fretfully, if Sherlock died today –

He couldn't think of it. It was too much. This whole day was far too much. The nightmarish quality was becoming yet more refined, and John realised that he had clung to the idea. He had been hanging onto his childish denial of the impending death of his friend, because he just couldn't cope with it. Not again, not again, not again. He chanted it in his head.  
_Idiot _whispered his failure-feeding psyche. His fear could cost the life of his best friend. John had retreated into his memories; let his soldier persona dictate his responses, when he should have acted on his instincts. He should have insisted on the key, an ambulance – _oh God_. What had he done? What damage had he caused?

Sherlock was talking nonsense. Utter nonsense.

"My lamp, John." He was saying now, "If you would be so kind as to turn it on for me. Thank you, good. And the blinds, very good. Now there are some letters, if you would put them on the table where I can reach them. Now, on the desk, there is sugar-tongs there. Use them to raise that little box, the one you were so interested in before. Put it among the letters. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower Burke Street."

John swallowed his fear, ridding his throat of the lump that that had gathered there at some point.

"I've never heard of him," he said.

"That doesn't surprise me. What you don't understand is that the man most informed on this disease is not a doctor, but a planter. Mr Culverton Smith is a well-known resident of Sumatra, currently based in London. There was an outbreak of the disease on his plantation, which caused him to study it himself, with some rather far-reaching consequences. I think he is a methodical person which is why I didn't want you to reach him before 6, since he wouldn't have been in his study. I need you to persuade him to come here and use his unique experience with the disease for my benefit. I'm sure he'll help."

John registered all of this while hyperaware of Sherlock's apparent inability to form a full sentence. His words were regularly interrupted by gasping breaths, and the way he clutched at the duvet showed John that he was in pain.

Even his appearance had somehow gone downhill. The flush on his cheeks was even more pronounced, his eyes were like hollow pits with overtly bright centres. His skin was sticky looking. Despite these things, he kept his words even and pronounced in a way which John couldn't help but admire. Even now Sherlock had his dignity.

"Tell him exactly how you've left me. Put across the precise impression you have of my situation – a dying man – one who might die if he does not co-operate. In fact, I can't think why the whole bed of the ocean is not a solid mass of oysters, when considering how productive they are! Ah, John I'm wandering. Strange how the brain controls the brain, isn't it? What was I saying?"

In that moment John wished more than ever that he could reach out to Sherlock, comfort him. Not because Sherlock needed it – he didn't seem to realise the peculiarity of his words at all– but because John needed it. He needed to be sure his friend was still in there somewhere. He needed to feel his pulse, to know for sure that blood still ran there. This was all so wrong. Sherlock didn't get ill. John's head throbbed. He wished he could find Sherlock in this rambling man.

_I'm losing him _was all he could think. And he was scared.

_Not again. Not this time. Not now._

_I've really fucked up._

"No, no, I remember now. My life depends on it.," Sherlock smiled happily, doing nothing to ease John's nerves, "Plead with him, John. To be honest, Culverton Smith and I are not on good terms. His nephew – I had my suspicions and I let Smith know it. The boy died horribly, I suspected murder. He's not my biggest fan, you understand. Soften him. Beg him; get him here by any means. He's the only one who can help me now."

"Sherlock," said John, gently, "I will get him here if I have to carry him."

Sherlock frowned, "You'll do nothing of the sort. Use persuasion. And then you have to get here before he does. Make any excuse to go without him. Don't forget, John. You won't fail me. You never did fail me.," he smiled, almost tenderly; "There must be natural enemies of the creatures. You and I, John, we have done our part. Will the world be overrun by oysters? No, no; ugh. You'll express that all in your mind."

With the key now safely in his hand, John set off with staunch determination, leaving Sherlock babbling like a small child, the last of his purposeful dignity drained. John took the bedroom door key with him, ensuring that the confused man could not lock himself in. The last he saw of his friend was an expressionless and staring face, muttering a kind of delirious, nonsensical chanting, and it was this image of the proud detective that he knew would enable him to move mountains if that was what it took. Come hell or high water, he would not let Sherlock Holmes die today.

**A/N:**

_**Thanks for the reviews, they make me write faster **_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or BBC Sherlock etc. Full credit to ACD for the source material this is based on.**_

**Chapter Three**

Mrs Hudson was stood at the bottom of the stairs, a full-to-bursting black rubbish bag in her hands. She had clearly been on track to dispose of the thing, but stopped and waited as she heard John coming down the stairs.

"John, how's Sherlock? I was getting worried."

She looked him over, frowning. The past 2 hours must have added some age to him. In fact, John felt that they had probably taken a few years of his life while they were at it.

He attempted to soothe the stress from his features, and was struck with déjà vu from his experiences informing patient's of a life-changing (or life-ending) illness. It was a grim comparison, one which he attempted to ignore.

"I'm going for help now." He told her.

Better to make it simple, no time for an explanation.

"Oh," Mrs Hudson continued to stand and watch him fretfully, unconsciously shredding the top of the bin bag with her finger tips.

"I'll take that," John offered, wanting to do something, anything, to ease his old landlady's anxiety.

"Only if it's not too much trouble, dear," she said, clearly miles away, giving it up without a fight, "I don't want to waste your time, not with..." she trailed off, eyes raising to the first floor flat, showing all too plainly what was on her mind.

John put a hand on her shoulder, "no trouble at all. Don't worry about it."

He wasn't sure if he was telling her not to worry about the rubbish, his time-keeping, or Sherlock, but hoped that somehow he had conveyed all three. So, with what he hoped was a comforting smile, he set off towards the back door.

John had rarely been in the small yard behind the house. So rarely that it was easy to forget it even existed. He deposited the black bag into the wheelie bin and pushed it down to fit, eventually getting annoyed and slamming the lid down. It would have to do.

The flaking wooden gate-door was near hanging off its hinges and it gave a terrible groaning noise as he pushed through it.

_I should probably fix that..._

"John!"

He looked up, stopping unexpectedly and blinking in attempt to see through the thin layer of fog that had gathered. There, leaning against the wall and wearing what looked like several coats, was Lestrade.

If it had been a few hours earlier John would probably have been startled by this strange discovery, but he now was on the wrong end of a bad day, not to mention getting slightly tired of the interruptions.

"Lestrade, hello. Kind of in a hurry so..."

He nodded in apology and carried on along the lane to the main road.

"John!" Lestrade's voice echoed slightly as he called him back.

John turned around, gritting his teeth in frustration, "Greg, I'm –"

"How is he?"

Lestrade wandered closer, looking concerned.

The question caught him off guard, and he felt a wave of some strange, sad emotion surround him, bringing back some of the hopelessness that had previously filled him.

John cleared his throat and looked down for a moment, "he's very ill."

Making an effort, he forced himself to look the Inspector in the eye.

Lestrade had a peculiar expression on his face; something between relief and a puppy-eyed guilt. Really, it made no sense at all. It was gone in a flash, leaving John uncertain whether it was ever there at all. Could he have imagined it? It was entirely possible that the stress was getting to him. He was in no mood to add another problem to his shattering nerves.

"I heard some rumour of it," Lestrade muttered darkly.

John nodded, "Goodbye, Greg."

Then he turned and walked to the main road as fast as he could without breaking out into a run.

The cab ride felt tediously slow. John fumed with quiet frustration at the driver's slow, careful approach; opting to glare at the back of his head rather than start screaming and pulling his hair out, which was starting to feel like a viable alternative at this point.

Lower Burke Street turned out to be a neat line of three-floor houses, all of which had seen better days. The rich red bricks looked dangerously brittle and many of the tall windows were boarded and barred. They had an air of bleak austerity, with their Victorian architecture and noticeably empty interiors. It showed all signs of being a well-to-do neighbourhood, but it had been pummelled by age and decay. In passing, John would have said that no one lived here. There was no sign of life to be seen, save the odd stray cat.

Despite this, he took barely a moment's hesitation before stepping into the strange, vacant street and searching for number 13. It didn't take long: only one house had lights on.

John felt oddly nervous as he knocked on the overtly large red door; after all, what sort of man would want to live in this place that somehow managed to be as pompous as it was derelict? He would soon find out.

The door clicked and creaked, and then a thin hand crept around it, pausing to gently scratch the aging wood. John stepped back without thinking, unsure what to expect now more than ever. Very slowly, the door was pulled back. A face peered out at him from a dimly lit hallway. It was a woman, probably about 45. She had wide, protruding eyes, thin lips and an expression of perpetual surprise. A shock of wiry, dark brown hair stood on end in all directions around her face. She didn't speak, prompting John to feel even more uncomfortable in her presence.

"Hi, I'm...looking for a Mr Culverton Smith."

The woman tilted her head.

"Is he home? I'm sorry to bother you, but it's quite important that I speak to him as soon as possible."

She blinked, licking her lips nervously and looking up and down the street behind him.

"Are you alone, sir?" her voice was quiet and distinctly Irish.

"Yes, yes I am. Please, is Mr Smith in? It's important."

She did one last sweep of the area with her dark eyes, and then looked him up and down with a suspicion that seemed to be lessening.

"Yes Doctor, my husband is in. Come with me."

She gestured him to follow as she backed into the corridor wall, quaking slightly.

"Thank you."

He stepped inside and moved out of the way as Smith's wife rushed to shut and bolt the door after him. John could feel himself becoming more and more uneasy. He was now trapped in this unfamiliar house, with this woman who was clearly terrified of something. _Or someone._

Trust Sherlock to pick a mad man to help him.

"This way Dr Watson,"

"You...I'm sorry, I don't remember telling you my name."

The woman turned so suddenly that John had to catch himself from falling onto her.

She put out a thin, vein-ridden hand. He took it; anything that made him less likely to die here was an opportunity he should probably take.

She squeezed his hand in both of hers, "You may call me Wanda, sir."

Before he could reply she was back on the move, scurrying up a spindly set of stairs and into another long, dusky hallway. He followed, looking around at the peeling green wallpaper and the dust that rose from the carpet with their every footstep.

At the end of hall Wanda looked back and put a finger to her lips.

"If you don't mind, sir, I'll just see whether my husband is ready for visitors," she whispered to him.

John nodded, trying not to over-think the statement.

He had been standing outside of the door for no more than a few seconds when a high, petulant voice boomed through into the hall.

"Who is this person?" he was saying.

John strained his ears, moving closer to the closed door.

"What does he want? How many times, woman, do not disturb me in my hours of STUDY!"

His voice became a shrieking rage and John found himself worried for the mouse-like Wanda, who had so apprehensively let him into her home. There was a scamper of footsteps, and Wanda reappeared looking flustered.

"I'm sorry, sir, my husband is very busy. You say the matter is important, if you still think so you may come back tomorrow."

She began to wave him away, but she needn't have bothered.

John thought of Sherlock's pain, his emaciated face, and the look of wild delusion in his intelligent eyes. The proud detective reduced to a shivering, senseless wreck. His life depended on John now.

For a moment John smiled and walked forwards, easing Wanda's nerves as she began to show him out, and then he turned on his heel and sprung towards the door. Ignoring the shrill call from Wanda, he pushed inside the room and finally came face to face with the elusive Mr Culverton Smith.

With a cry of anger, the man rose from his reclining chair beside a marble fireplace. Two sullen grey eyes stared out from under a pair of impossibly thick, sandy eyebrows. His bald head shone under the flickering light that was merely a bulb suspended from the moulding ceiling. At first glance he was a sturdy man, but as he stood he revealed a small, frail figure, with twisted shoulders and a back that never entirely straightened.

"What's this?" he asked his voice dangerously close to a scream, "What in God's name is this? Didn't I send the message that I would see you tomorrow? Wanda!" he barked out his wife's name and she came skittering into the doorway, hands reaching out shakily to do something, but instead doing nothing. At the alarming look on the man's face, John couldn't blame her.

"Didn't I tell you to send this man away?"

"Mr Smith, this can't be delayed," John said, before Wanda could try and justify the problem he had caused her, "Sherlock Holmes –"

The mention of his name had an unexpected effect on the bald man. The anger passed from his face, and he instead became tense and alert.

"You're here because of Holmes?"

"Yes"

"Well, well?" he asked urgently, falling back into his cushioned chair and downing the of a glass of wine to his right, "What is it?"

"Sherlock's desperately ill. That's why I'm here."

Smith nodded, pouring more wine, "Wanda! Pull up this gentleman a chair."

John hastily pulled up one himself, not wanting to add to the poor woman's difficulties any more.

Smith stood up and offered him a glass of wine.

"No, thank you. We haven't got long."

Smith shrugged, throwing the red liquid back into his mouth and going to resume his seat.

"I'm sorry to hear this," he said, caressing the empty glass between finger and thumb, "I only knew Mr Holmes through some business dealings. But I was impressed with his talents. He's an amateur of crime like I am of disease."

A proud smile crossed his face, and he was back on his feet. His small eyes clamped on his wife, who was dithering on the edge of the room still.

"Wanda! Get out, shut the door," he clapped his hands angrily at her, "what are you still DOING here?"

She squeaked in apology and left hurriedly.

John stood up, out of anger more than anything, "Was that really necessary?" he asked, glowering at the other man, who had the nerve to grin.

"Calm yourself, doctor. You're in my house now."

John furrowed his eyebrows, "You don't have to worry about _my_ temper, Smith, unless you continue to harass your wife in my presence. In fact, if I hear anymore it won't be me you have to worry about."

Smith gave him a scornful look and wandered over to a table, which was covered in Petri dishes, and the kind of science equipment that wouldn't have looked out of place in a museum.

"These are my prisons," he said simply, ignoring John's visible rage. He pointed to the rows of bottles and jars, "in those gelatine cultivations some of the worst offenders in the world are doing time."

John brought his focus back to his job with difficulty, "Sherlock told me you had some experience with his condition, the one he says he has. That's why he wants to see you. Says you're the only man in London that can help him."

This seemed to surprise Smith, who scratched his head absent-mindedly.

"Why?" he asked, "Why does Mr Holmes think that?"

"Because of your knowledge of Eastern disease."

"Hm. And what makes him think that this disease of his is Eastern?"

"He's been working on a case down at the docks, picked up some disease that shouldn't be in these parts at all. You'll have to ask him, I don't know all the details, but I think this disease has been brought here purposefully. Again, I'm just telling you what I picked up from what he said – he's a bit delusional – but it sounds like it's already connected to one death."

Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and went to his desk, where he took out and lit a cigarette.

"Mr Smith, if you don't mind," John said impatiently, "I've been gone too long as it is. Will you come to Baker Street?"

Smith ignored the question, "I trust the matter is not as serious as you think. How long has he been ill?"

"About three days."

"And you say he's delirious?"

"Occasionally, it seemed to be getting worse though."

"I'm sorry to say that you may be right, this sounds serious."

"Of course it's serious. I'm a doctor, I know a dying man when I see one!"

Smith continued as if his ramblings had never been interrupted, "It would be inhuman not to answer his call. I don't like to be interrupted from my work, Dr Watson, but as you say, this is serious. I'll be there, of course."

"Wait, how do you – oh, never mind," John was sick of feeling like today was one big mind game, "thank you."

He spat out the thanks, torn between wanting to tear this man to shreds or physically dragging him down the stairs and into a cab.

Then he remembered Sherlock's other injunction.

"I have another appointment."

Smith raised a thick, straw-like eyebrow, "very well, doctor. I'll go alone. You can rely on me being there in half an hour at most."

With this reassurance John left and caught a cab back to Baker Street, promising the driver an extra tenner if he got there in half an hour, which John thought was a fairly reasonable time anyway but he wasn't taking any chances.

It was with a heavy heart that he re-entered Sherlock's bedroom. John couldn't help but assume the worst, and when he saw the laboured rise and fall of his friend's chest he could feel nothing but relief. He seemed to have improved greatly in John's absence. Sherlock's appearance was as ghastly as ever, but there was no trace of the delirium that had plagued him in their last conversation. His voice was still feeble, true, but it was crisper and the sound was much closer much closer to the one John remembered.

"Did you find him, John?"

"Yes, he's on his way now."

"Excellent, John, I knew you could convince him. Thank you. You can leave now."

"Sherlock! After all that, really? I need to hear his opinion. He seems a dangerous git, too. You're not staying in a room alone with him in your state."

Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

"Of course, but I have reason to believe that Culverton Smith's opinion would be much more valuable if he thinks that we're alone. There's room under my bed, John."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, John. Don't make me repeat myself."

"You can't be serious."

"Well, where else are you going to hide? In my bed? Bad idea, unless you like fatal diseases. I'm afraid my bedroom does not lend itself to concealment, which is probably just as well: Smith will have no idea. "

From outside the road outside the rumbling of a car engine could suddenly be heard. Sherlock sat bolt upright at the sound.

"That'll be him. John, now!"

"Sherlock –"

"Quick, John, if you love me! Don't move, whatever happens, do you hear me? Don't speak! Don't move! Just listen, listen to every word he says!"

The desperation was written all over his haggard face.

Without a word, John knelt to the floor and crawled into the small space between Sherlock's bed and the floor. From above a white sheet was lowered over the gap he had passed through, and John was left with a face full of carpet and the sound of the sick man's breathing above him. Then Sherlock's previous strength seemed to depart, to be replaced by the low, vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man.

From his hiding-place John heard the footfalls on the stairs, then the opening and closing of the bedroom door. Then there was another long silence, broken only by the ragged gasping and muttering of Sherlock.

Finally the unnatural hush was broken.

"Sherlock," Smith cried abruptly, "Sherlock Holmes!"

His tone was insistent, as if he was trying to wake a sleeper.

"Can't you hear me?"

There was a rustling, as if he had shaken the sick man by his shoulders. John gripped onto the carpet, burning with anger.

"Is that you, Mr Smith?" Sherlock's voice had become weaker and, if John didn't know Sherlock better, afraid?

"I hardly dared to think you'd come."

Smith laughed.

"Sherlock Holmes. Dear me, look at the _state_ of you."

And John was sure of it this time: there was malice in that mans tone. For all his trust in that Sherlock had a plan, because Sherlock _always _had a plan, he was already struggling to stay silent. All he could do was lock-down and brace himself, because this wasn't going to be a conversation he wanted to hear.

**A/N:**

**Thanks for sticking with me!**

_**Feedback is really appreciated so please leave a review if you have a moment**_

**-Also, if you've read the original story you will know that it's actually Inspector Morton. I decided to change him to Lestrade in this simply because he's more familiar to everyone, and who doesn't love Lestrade? Haha**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or BBC Sherlock etc. Full credit to ACD for the source material this is based on**_

_**This chapter is from Culverton Smith's point of view (still 3**__**rd**__** person though) just because I found it worked better when the reader can see what's happening. **_

**Chapter Four **

"_Sherlock Holmes. Dear me, look at the state of you." _

Culverton Smith laughed a deep, guttural laugh. He stood at the foot of the death-bed, 'death-bed' because surely this man was good as gone. The sick, spindly Sherlock was bundled up awkwardly in wads of thin blanket; a duvet was strewn over the floor to the left of the bed, unused and unwanted. Sherlock Holmes had spent the last few seconds whimpering and panting. Now he listened with great interest, blue eyes glazed but concentrated on his visitor.

"I appreciate this," Sherlock said, a deep chuckle forming in his own throat, "Knowing of your unusual knowledge it was obvious that I had to seek your help."

"Very good of you," Smith replied agreeably, "But it would seem that you're the only one who recognises my intelligence. About time you did, too. The scientific community rejects me, my father thought me a madman and disowned me, and even my WIFE dares suggest I'm somehow out of control. The nerve of it! You understand, don't you Sherlock,"

His crept closer and settled by Sherlock's head, purring his words as he placed a hand in the detectives matted curls, wiping it from his bleary eyes.

"You understand the pain of being outcast by the very people you dedicate your life to helping. The humiliation," Smiths voice became gentle, almost as if he were talking to a small, very upset child. He knelt at the bedside, curling his stubby fingers around Sherlock's jaw and leaning head-first onto the mattress in despair.

"Doesn't it break your _heart,"_ on that he was once again a smooth, growling creature. His fingers gripped almost painfully onto Sherlock's face.

"Mr Smith,"

The weakness seeped from his tone, Smith revelled in it.

"Yes, dear," he said slowly, savouring the pain in Sherlock's wheezing breath.

"I know what's wrong with me, and I know you can help me."

"Fortunately you are the only one who appreciates that fact. Fortunately for me at least..."

"You can help me."

"Oh I'm sure I could. You recognise the symptoms?"

"Only too well,"

Smith stood up, rubbing his aching back as he did so, "A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor, brainless Danny was a dead man on the fourth day – a strong, hearty young man he was too. It was, as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London – and a disease which I have studied carefully, too. Remarkable coincident, is it not Sherlock? Very smart of you to notice, but rather unkind of you to suggest that I was its cause and effect,"

"I knew that you did it."

Smith leered over the dying man with a smile, "Oh, did you? Well, you couldn't prove that, could you? But what _did_ you think you think you were doing spreading such _hurtful _reports about me like that, and now crawling to me in such a pathetic state? What's your game – eh?"

"Water," Sherlock rasped, groaning piteously into his pillow.

"You're precious near the end, my friend, but can't have you leaving before I've had a word with you. I'll give you water. We would have been such good allies, Sherlock. Do you see it? I did. For you the villain, for me the microbe; what a team we would have made you and me: a partner worthy of your intellect. We are the improbable ones. You, however, have let me down."

Smith shuffled to the bedside table, which held an untouched jug of water and an empty glass. He poured some and reached for Sherlock's hand, pulling it up to grasp the water.

"There, don't slop it about! That's right. Do you understand me, Sherlock? Oh the team we could have made..."

Sherlock gave a dismal cry.

"Please, do what you can for me, Mr Smith. Let's put the past behind us. I'll put the words out of my head if you cure me. I swear to God I will, please. I can't stand this any longer. If you help me I'll forget it all. I promise I will."

"Forget what?"

"Danny Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I'll forget that."

Smith snarled, "You can forget or remember it as you like. I don't see you in the witness box any time soon. I assure you, I couldn't care less that you should know how that imbecile died. We're not talking about the boy, we are talking about you."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock seemed impatient, for some inconceivable reason.

"The man who came for me – I forget his name, I guessed that he was that incompetent _friend _of yours– he said you contracted this in the East End."

Anger flashed past Sherlock's otherwise blank gaze, "Mr Smith you need not worry about the ability of John Watson, touching though it is. And yes, I believe I caught it in the docks."

"You're proud of your brain, Sherlock, are you not? Think yourself clever, don't you? I must admit I thought you had more smarts than you are showing now. It's pathetic; you're wasted in this place. Think of how different things could be, if only you had GIVEN ME A CHANCE! Instead you chose to move in with that FOOL OF YOURS."

Culverton Smith caught himself, red in the face and livid at the injustice of his situation. Sherlock Holmes had made a mistake in crossing him, one which he was paying for dearly. How had he dared ignore his hospitability? Didn't he realise his privilege? Sherlock Holmes was a prize, a prize which he would have liked to have had for himself. Yes, Sherlock was getting what he deserved now. With a deep breath he plastered a wide smile on his face, succeeding only in looking like a cheap clown.

"But think back." He said, "Can you think of no other way you could have ended up this way?"

"I can't think. My mind isn't right, it's too weak. For God's sake help me."

"Yes, I'll help you, Sherlock. I'll help you understand just where you are and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die."

"Please...just give me something for the pain."

"Painful, is it? Yes, the foreigners used to do some squealing towards the end. Cramp?"

Sherlock nodded, his hands trembled as he wrung them together.

"It doesn't matter, as long as you understand. Listen now! Can you remember anything unusual happening about the time these symptoms began?"

"No, no; nothing."

"Wrong answer. Think again."

"I'm too ill to think."

"Well, then, I'll give you a clue: did anything come by post?"

"By post?"

"Yes, a box."

"I think I'm going to faint," Sherlock was near hyperventilating, panicking.

Smith grabbed him roughly by his pyjama shirt, "Listen, Holmes. I haven't got time for your dramatics. You certainly don't. You _will _hear me. Do you remember an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it – do you remember?"

"Oh, yes. There was something sharp in it – a spring I think. Some cruel joke, I think. Off the top of my head I can think of at least seventeen who would send something like that."

"It was no joke, as you are finding out now. You're a fool, Sherlock Holmes. Frankly I expected better from you. You have it and you have got it. Who asked you to get in my way? You brought this on yourself. I gave you a chance, I offered you my friendship. I looked up to you! But I was wrong; you're just an arrogant, spiteful little magician. I believed in you after what you did, even when you showed me no kindness! I helped pull your name from the mud. Where's my reward? And now, with your snide blame-game, it's too much! You won't walk away from this. It's laughable really, that I ever thought you would be hard to defeat. Look at you, you're a dead man."

Sherlock drew a sharp intake of air, "Yes, of course. The spring made me bleed. This box – this on the table."

Sure enough, under a pile of ripped-open letters, the ivory box looked the picture of innocence.

"The very same, it might as well leave in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have your truth now, Sherlock Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of that sneak Danny Savage, so I have sent you to share it with him. Yes, you're near your end now. And I will sit here and watch you die."

Sherlock's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

"What's that?"

"Please," Sherlock murmured, "Would you turn on the light? I'm finding it hard to see."

"Ah, the shadows are falling, are they? Yes, I'd like to be able to see you die as clearly as possible. It will compensate somewhat for the misery you've caused me."

He crossed the room and flicked the switch.

"Anything else?" Smith asked, sarcasm dripping from his words.

"My lighter and a cigarette please, Smith."

His head jerked towards the man in the bed.

"What the _hell?_ Explain yourself!"

Sherlock was speaking on what could only be his natural voice – a little shaky, perhaps, but it bore no trace of the deathly tremor it had been filled with moments before. Culverton Smith stared at him, at a loss.

"The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it. I haven't seen food or water for three days, until you were good enough to pour me that glass of water. But the cigarettes were the worst. Ah, here they are, thank you my good sir. Much better. Do I hear footsteps?"

Not only did he sound perfectly well, he sounded smug!

His head spun, how had this backfired so spectacularly? The kill was secured, he had been sure of it.

Heavy footsteps approached. The door opened, and there stood a silver-haired man in several coats holding up ID.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"All is in order and this is your man," Sherlock Holmes nodded towards Smith but otherwise ignored him as he lit a cigarette and began smoking it.

Smith was defeated: as he was handcuffed and given the usual cautions, that was all that ran through his mind. He had been beaten.

"I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Daniel Savage. And, I might add, the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes."

The inspector chuckled, wearing the same smug look on his face, probably laughing at Smith for his own stupidity for even attempting to beat Sherlock Holmes at his own game.

"To save invalid trouble, Inspector, Mr Culverton Smith was good enough to give the signal by turning on the main light. By the way, he has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which contains strains of a highly lethal disease. It would be helpful to remove it. Yes. I would handle it with caution if I were you. Put it down here. It will play a part in the trial."

There was a rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron and a cry of pain.

By now all resistance did seem futile, but Smith had one final card to play.

"A nice trap! It will bring _you _into the dock, not me. He asked me to come here and cure him and I came. I'm sure he'll pretend I said something insane to corroborate suspicions. But in the end it's just his word against mine!"

Sherlock, who had been busy smoking a cigarette and gulping down water straight from the jug, spluttered suddenly. He all but threw the jug onto the table, looking horrified, "I forgot about something! John, I do apologise. I needn't introduce you to Mr Smith; I understand that you two have met." He looked to Lestrade, "Have you a cab waiting below? I'll follow you when I'm dressed."

Both Smith and the inspector did a double take as a man appeared from under the bed. Dr Watson emerged unenthusiastically; looking tired and thoroughly pissed off.

The short man sent a death-glare at Smith, "You," he spat, "get the hell out."

**A/N:**

**Please review! **

_**Last chapter next! I promise lots of confrontation.**_

_**-I realised too late that using the name Daniel might cause some misunderstanding if you've read my fic 'Family Portraits'. For various reasons I can't change it now, but the two characters are completely unconnected and are definitely not the same person. Sorry for any confusion. **_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or BBC Sherlock etc. Full credit to ACD for the source material this is based on**_

**Chapter Five**

The flat was soon emptied of criminals and detective inspectors, leaving John and Sherlock in icy silence. Or, closer to the truth, John was left in icy silence; Sherlock was oblivious.

The tall, formerly bedridden, man slunk about the kitchen and bedroom in various states of undress, grabbing handfuls of biscuits as he went about the painstakingly slow process of getting into one of his too-small suits. He ignored John who glared at nothing from his seat across the room. As usual, Sherlock remained blissfully unaware and unaffected by John's emotional state. In fact he seemed to be in remarkably good spirits, especially when considering that he hadn't eaten or drank for 3 days. Then again, he had solved the case, and that was all that mattered. After what John had been put through today it felt especially ruthless. It was nothing new, but still. In recent years John had come to accept this part of his friend, but he could never claim to understand it. He watched as Sherlock hummed and spun about, as if immersed in some kind of mind-ballet – which was entirely plausible, really.

As much as he tried to accept that it was just _Sherlock – _something no amount of perseverance would change – he couldn't help taking it to heart; because even now, after the utter hell of today, Sherlock was dancing about and celebrating. He was _happy. _No, he was on a high, the thrill of the win.

Now Sherlock flung himself head first onto the sofa, fastening the remaining buttons on his shirt and munching contentedly on an apple. His lead lolled in a way which John served only to enrage John further. He didn't want Sherlock to think he'd forgotten, or God forbid _forgiven,_ what had happened, but this was being rapidly overwhelmed by his desire to smack Sherlock on the head and tell him to sit up before he choked to death.

John folded his arms, coughing discreetly.

Sherlock's eyes rolled in his head, settling in the vague direction of his disgruntled former-flatmate.

"Yes?" he asked, very slowly; in that slightly patronising and yet happy tone he so often adopted after a successful case.

When John didn't respond Sherlock chuckled quietly, closing his eyes and pressing the apple against his mouth, inhaling its smell.

"I never needed it more," he said, "My eating habits aren't exactly regular, as you know. So it wasn't as difficult for me as it would be for some others, but it was essential that you and Mrs Hudson saw the reality of my situation. So that she would relay it to you, and you could in turn convince Smith of its severity."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as if hit by a sudden realisation.

"You're not offended are you, John?"

He actually sounded worried, and uncertain. He really didn't know.

It was the final straw.

"Offended? Why would I be offended?" John answered bitterly. His voice was unnaturally monotone, a sure sign of an impending explosion. Sherlock knew it too, instinctively drawing himself into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his legs for protection.

John felt fire rising in his throat: fury; terrible, burning fury.

"Not only did you lie to me, after everything you've put me through," John's voice was rising continuously and he wasn't aware when he ended up on his feet, it just happened. He towered over Sherlock. All his insecurities, fears and the vulnerability they brought him were breaking through the once calm exterior, ricocheting from his angry, hurt words like bullets.

"You made me think I was losing you, _again._ Don't you understand what that's like? You don't, do you. You take it for granted that I'll always put up with your experiments, with _you_. We're supposed to be friends, but you just don't seem to understand that concept, Sherlock. Friends don't constantly insult friends, friends don't DRUG friends, friends do not MAKE THEIR FRIENDS THINK THEY'RE DEAD! BUT SHERLOCK HOLMES DOESN'T HAVE TO CONCERN HIMSELF WITH THOSE NICETIES, DOES HE? No, because nothing you say or do can get rid of me. John Watson will take your bullshit, no matter what, right? No, don't talk, I'm not finished! YOU'VE GONE TOO FAR TODAY! You haven't got a BLOODY CLUE what I've sacrificed for you. What I would do and have done FOR YOU! I don't want much, I don't EXPECT much from you, but I always thought that deep down – deep, deep down in that big old mind of yours – you cared about me, just a little bit. I can see now that I was kidding myself. You don't care, and you don't even care to _imagine _what you've done to me today. I always thought you had it in you. Maybe I was wrong; maybe I should have listened when they warned me about you. Because after everything that's happened, you still don't care about anything but the case! You could have killed yourself! This ridiculous fast could have stopped you DEAD. Do you understand that? You could have died for this bloody case, and you'd do it again if you had to. That shouldn't still bother me; it just fucking _does_, alright. You're a mechanical bastard. I'm tired of being taken for a mug. You've gone TOO FAR this time."

"John, please –" Sherlock was clutching at his head, groaning. Clearly this conversation was not going the way he had hoped.

"No, shut it. I'm going to Mary and my job of _limited skill_ with my _mediocre qualifications_ –"

"John, John, calm down one second! Listen! There was no other way! You know as well as I do that acting isn't one of your strong points. If I'd told you, you'd never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the most vital point of the whole scheme! I've done my research on Culverton Smith, and I knew of his spiteful nature, I'd no doubt that he would want to come and look at his handiwork! I had it all planned out!"

"I don't CARE about the case! Not now. I care that you almost died; I don't think I could take that again. I care that you don't understand how that makes me feel, and that maybe you never will. I CARE!"

His anger seemed to subside as he collapsed into his chair, head almost on his knees, hands folded over it almost defensively. He was unable to contain himself; incapable of crying. He had spent a long resisting it, far too long. Maybe Sherlock wasn't the only cold one here.

A hand was on his arm. He felt too drained to even hit it away. Sherlock's forehead bumped against his own and neither of them moved. Tremors rocked through John's body as if he was experiencing the come-down from a particularly awful nightmare. Even the ever-impassive Sherlock seemed shaken. The younger man crouched against his friend, his best and only friend, and for the first time he knew that he shared in John's grief. He had often felt remorse, hidden though it was. He had also felt loss, particularly in his time alone hunting those who had caused his isolation. But as a general rule, he did not feel things the same as other people. He didn't feel things deeply like John did; he didn't have the compassion he had. He had never needed it. _Caring is not an advantage. _

Mycroft was right, it wasn't an advantage. Not for Sherlock, who didn't need love or hate or _care _to motivate his life. But it was for John, John whose care was so resounding and important that it was in all he did and all he lived for. It gave him a meaning and a cause. And through John, it was an advantage to Sherlock. That was why they were a team; a unit. They needed each other, undoubtedly and always. It didn't matter that John was married or that Sherlock emotionally distant sometimes, because in the end it was love. That love separated Sherlock from the psychopath he had fought and won. That love was what ultimately made him more than just a great man. That love had saved John from the depression of a meaningless post-war existence, and it had saved Sherlock from the mind that had created him as it could destroy him. It was what made them good. More so, it made them unbeatable.

It didn't need saying, it never would. But in that silence they understood each other completely.

Sherlock's sincerity was evident. He was sorry, John knew it. Now it was up to him to acknowledge it. Apologies were not Sherlock's forte but, then again, seeing his friend in pain was not exactly John's favourite pastime either. It was time to try, just try, to say it...properly this time.

Sherlock leaned back, watching John's reactions intently.

"I am sorry. I don't mean to..." he struggled for words.

"Be a dick?" John offered.

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile, "that too."

John smiled absently, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder. He ran his free hand over his face with a sigh.

"I know. I...I think I might owe you an apology too."

He held up a hand to silence Sherlock's protest, "No, no, hear me out: you're still a dick. But you're not a machine. I say that sometimes, when I'm angry, but it's not true."

He held Sherlock's gaze, ruefully, "do you know that?"

Sherlock snorted, "obviously."

"Sometimes I don't think you do. When I say it, it hurts you...I think. It's hard to tell. That might be why I say it sometimes, because nothing else bothers you. But it's like you accept it. I don't like that, because it's not true. You're not a machine. Maybe you don't respond to things like everyone else, or you don't fully understand about being sociable and fitting in...But you're only human at the end of the day, a damn good one at that. That's why it scares me so bloody much when you pull stunts like this: because you're not actually invincible, you're a human being who can laugh and hurt and _die_, and I don't think you see that sometimes. I'm sorry I've added to that. It's wrong and I'm sorry."

"John."

"One more thing-"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"You're bloody awful sociopath."

They both burst into laughter, and they knew that they were forgiven.

It was 7 o'clock by the time the Chinese food arrived. Sherlock ate ravenously, devouring a carton of orange juice in the process.

When they were finished they both lay stretched out on the floor among the empty cartons, not quite side by side, but there seemed to be nothing between them now.

Sherlock sighed, "Ok, you've got questions. Go."

"You look healthy enough now. But...before?"

"Three days of fast doesn't do much for beauty, John. As for the rest, it was nothing a good scrub couldn't fix. Vaseline on my forehead, stage make-up under the eyes and on the face, and crust of beeswax on the lips, a very satisfying effect don't you think? I was thinking of writing up an article for the website on the subject, actually...Oh, and little occasional talk about oysters, and any other irrelevant subject produces a pleasing effect of half-delirium."

"You wouldn't let me near you. But if the infection was a lie...?"

Sherlock smiled, looking with affectionate disbelief at the army doctor who was flat out next to him, "Can I ask you John? Do you imagine I have no respect for your medical talents? I didn't believe for a second that your astute judgement would pass me as a dying man. If you had even one second to examine me the entire plan would have fallen through. At a distance I could fool you. You had to fall for it; no one else could have convinced Culverton Smith to see me today like you did. No, John, imagine my horror when I saw you holding that box. You can just see if you look at it sideways where the sharp spring would emerge like a vipers tooth as you open it. I dare say it was by a similar device that poor Savage was done to death."

Sherlock hesitated, indecisively. "It was terrifying. To see you holding it."

Neither man spoke as John considered it.

"You still owe me for this," was all he could say.

"Fair enough. You...you know as well as I do that I'm not one for...well, for being so upfront about such things; but you underestimate your importance to me."

John smiled, knowing how difficult it was for Sherlock to say these things out loud. So many people didn't understand why John ever thought Sherlock was worth his time, or why Sherlock was so attached to John. But they did, and that was all that mattered.

"You do that too," he said, nudging him light-heartedly, "Promise me you'll think of that next time you decide to tempt death."

"How could I not? But I think you're right."

"I'm right? Oh, what, you're fantastic?"

"Yes, but that's not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"I mean that I'm not a machine. But I might be a dick sometimes."

Sherlock stretched out on the carpet, yawning widely.

"I get so caught up in the chase that I can't see anything else. Today...I admit I didn't fully consider the effect it could have on you...the memories it might trigger. What I'm trying to say, is...this won't happen again."

John grinned, reaching out to mess up Sherlock's greasy mop of hair, causing him to squirm and roll away.

"Sherlock, that's all I needed to hear."

**A/N:**

**Fin!**

**Thank you so much if you reviewed, or even if you have just been following this story. It was my first attempt at a multi-chapter fanfic, so please let me know how I did and how I can improve if you have the time! **

**~Effy X**


End file.
